The Pond is no more. No, don’t freak out. The pool is still there, still holdin’ water and still being enjoyed by yours truly. It’s just that while I’d begun to get used to the idea of calling it The Pond, something happened when I was in it yesterday that changed that.

I’m swimming around, swishing my feet back and forth along the bottom to ensure there’s no chunky grains of salt still undissolved, and I feel something that shouldn’t be there. Since I can’t just grab the skimmer and fish it out, I take a breath and drop to the bottom to grab hold of it. Only…I can’t snag it. I mean, I got a finger on it a couple of times, but it feels like a leaf, and I just couldn’t hang out down there long enough to secure it. Now, I know what you’re thinking, because, I thought it too. And, it practically panicked me. Huh? WTF? I can’t stay under for twenty seconds to grab hold of a friggin’ leaf???

I know I need some exercise. But hell, I was walking over seven miles a day up until 4 weeks ago, when I broke the foot. And sure, while the weight I’d taken off has come back with a vengeance…all my stamina? Gone? Damn, shouldn’t the weight have helped me stay down a little longer?

The weight. Staying down there. Whoa. Only after a frustrating fourth time on the bottom did it occur to me—I wasn’t out of breath. It wasn’t that I couldn’t have stayed down there for a minute or longer…if I was in my sister’s pool. I pinned the object with my foot, and it all came together. It was the corner of a plastic bag I thought I had tossed over the side the night before. The night I put the third and fourth bags of salt in. That’s when the new name for my pool struck me: The Dead Sea.

Yeah, for the horror guy, even better than Crystal Lake. Kinda felt a little dumb that it took that long for it to click, but yeah, salt water, lot easier to float in. And, this pool currently has roughly 200 lbs of fresh salt dissolved in it, helping prevent the fat guy from pretending to be a lobster. The Pond has evolved into The Dead Sea, and that’s what I’m sticking with. Now, in another moment of absolute clarity, recall the guitar Pam got me for our anniversary a few weeks back?

I’d opened up the naming possibilities to friends, fans, family…anyone who reads the blog. And, I got a pretty good list of suggestions. But, none of them really grabbed me. I was getting a little antsy about it, though, too. Every time I picked her up, I’d waste a little more time trying to think of a good name before starting to play. Like trying to trap that piece of plastic on The Dead Sea floor, it was getting frustrating. And, it was detracting from my playing. And then…

The Mummy. I am a huge fan of the original The Mummy. After seeing someone posting about it the other night (happily, they torched the Tom Cruise reboot and gave a list of reasons why the original still kicks ass that sure sounded valid to me), I started thinking about that. Anck-su-Namun. While I dig it, it doesn’t fit the guitar. Yeah, maybe if I’d gotten this guitar in natural wood or a pale wood with sunburst, it’d be perfect. I’d get Scott to carve me an ankh to put on the headstock and I’d be set. But for a sea foam green vintage style guitar with this odd body shape? Much as I love the name Anck-su-Namun, it wasn’t gonna work. Ana, on the other hand (the Ah-na pronunciation). Ooh, now that felt good. Maybe not perfect, but damn, I was onto something.

I play for a while, but nothing else seems like it’s gonna jump out at me. I unplug, turn off my amp, hop behind the keyboard to get back onto a short story I’m working on, and tell Alexa, my Echo, to resume whatever playlist I’d been listening to. ’80s New Wave somethingorother. Boom.

“Do You Wanna Hold Me?” by Bow Wow Wow comes on. Ana falls by the wayside. Because now I know. It doesn’t just feel right, it feels perfect. For those not up on your ’80s New Wave, Bow Wow Wow was fronted by a mohawk sporting hot-as-Hell lead singer named Annabella Lwin. I won’t even talk about my efforts to get a good copy of “I Want Candy” on VHS back when you had to hit PLAY and RECORD at exactly the same time. I can still remember that video, and while to this day I’m ticked at how her manager stole Adam Ant’s band to back Lwin for Bow Wow Wow, I certainly hold nothing against her.

Annabella Lwin from the ‘I Want Candy’ music video!

Having her name attached to my new guitar? Having a vintage six string that needed a throwback name and pulling one from 1983? Oh, yeah. The search is over. To all who offered up suggestions? Thanks much. I appreciate all of them. If for some reason I do wind up getting another guitar somewhere down the road, one of those may be lurking on the list, simply biding its time. Keep reading the blog—you never know.
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Currently listening to: “I Sit On Acid” by Lords of Acid.

I’ve made references over the past couple of months to various ‘yard work’ we’ve been doing, some unnamed ‘home improvements’ going on, etc. Well, while the project was completed a little later than expected (partially due to weather, which killed us in June), this is what I was talking about.

I’m thinking of calling it “The Pond”. I mean, sure, Crystal Lake’s always one to bring a smile to my face, but.

Anyway, today was the maiden voyage across The Pond. And, I know just what you’re thinking: “But, but Joe. There’s no one in that pool. It’s empty.”

And, you’d be right. Kinda. You see, that pic was taken right before Pam left town. Not sure if you can see the water level, but it was probably about 3/4 full when the shutter clicked. The following day, my buddy, Scott, got the pumps and filter attached, and rain helped bring her up to the FILL line. That said, it wasn’t quite a pool. Not yet. Basically, it was a big bucket of water. And sure, while that’s what your average pool is, people who can actually swim in theirs treat the bucket water so it isn’t so…bucket-like. Only, today was Saturday. My nephews were working. Sis wasn’t available. Scott’s out of town. Pam is in New York. The weather was threatening, so inviting Billy and Tommy and John over wasn’t even a consideration. Plus, I’m all the way across town. Not to mention, Tommy has an in-ground pool. So, yeah, pool looks empty. Because while I could have set up the tripod and the selfie stick and set the phone to take some video, nope, I just started getting to work.

Which meant, despite my broken foot, starting to treat the water. Yesterday, my sis gave me a lift to Ace Hardware and Lowes, so I could get roughly 300lbs of stuff necessary to start swimming. Pam and I chose a salt water pool because it requires no chlorine, a lot less chemicals and is much less harsh on skin-which is good for Pam, who’s allergic to everything. So, since the pool is 12 foot wide by 24 foot long (much more pool than I’d been looking for, BTW), that means starting off with 210 lbs of salt.

Now, the instructions say to walk around the pool and just pour it in slowly. However, as you can see, much more pool means much less deck. So, yours truly called up the pool place, got the okay to put the salt in while I was also in there, and heaved 2 bags, sealed, over the side. And then…and then the real fun began.

Not sure if the ladder’s in the picture, but even if it is, it doesn’t matter. The pool itself? It’s great. It’s huge, it’s a little taller than the one we had back when I lived in New York, and it probably cost about one fifth of what my Dad paid almost 40 years ago. Does it have metal walls? No. Does it have a metal top rail that makes it look finished? No. But if I can get 5 years out of this thing – and plenty of people in worse places than South Florida have gotten longer out of theirs – I’m guessing Dad would be thrilled. If he was here, no doubt, he would’ve pushed me to invest a couple of bucks more, if not offered me a couple of hundred to upgrade the filter pump and get the solar cover, but I feel pretty confident he watched me hop in this afternoon and got a big kick out of it. And, not just because of the ladder. Yeah, back to the ladder.

This thing wouldn’t have supported me at 16. Of all the corners Intex cut in creating a really big, cool, sturdy pool for this price, the ladder is where they went outright cheap. This thing sucks. It’s kid-sized, at best. I wouldn’t have been able to sit on the platform at 16, much less now that I’m carrying around an extra 40 (20 thanks to the inertia surrounding having a broken foot). So, Dad? He probably got a chuckle out of seeing me trying to get up the ladder without resting too much weight on my foot, while getting that leg over the top rail and into the drink. Probably got a little worried when the weather turned on me (of course), and I had to hurry out. Yeah, hurry.

Listen, let me tell you. When I’m at my sister’s place and it starts raining? The kids get out of the pool. The blind guy doesn’t. If there’s some thunder? Ehh, I’ll think about it. If there’s some lightning? Okay, I’ll probably make for the side, at least. But, when there’s lightning so close and so bright that the blind guy can tell it flashed? Uh, yeah, earth-rattling thunder doesn’t need to be part of the equation. So, Me-So-Sightless has to get to the side of the pool. Then, because I didn’t bother turning on the music, I had to follow the edge all the way until I found the ladder. Then I had to gimp up that rickety piece of junk, get down the other side, and hobble about another 40 feet to the lanai door. All the while, with the rain pounding down. Mouse, wisely, had headed for cover when the first drops began to fall, and was eagerly awaiting my arrival on the couch in the lanai when I finally made it in. Needless to say, I did not, thankfully, get struck by lightning. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, did The Pond.

I only managed to get 2 bags of salt in. I only got about 45 minutes in the water. The ankle brace I bought yesterday is as worthless as the Intex ladder that tried to shrug me off like it was a clown gig at the circus. And still.

All in all? I was ecstatic. When we made the decision to build a deck to support the pool because leveling the yard was beyond what we could afford, we made the right call. When I broke my foot, and couldn’t keep up with my walking (I was averaging 7.5 miles a day), the weight started pouring on. I needed to get the damned pool up. It meant that Pam and I laid out a few more bucks than we’d originally planned on, but man, when I did hop in and floated out into the middle? I was in heaven. I keep getting up, using the kneeling-scooter to go to the back door to listen, see if it’s still raining, or if there’s thunder. Last time I checked, the sky was still grumbling. Ehh, who cares? Pam’s out of town. It’s the weekend. I don’t punch a clock. If it takes ’til 3am for the weather to settle down? I’m going back in. Because now it’s up. It’s finally filled and the water’s kinda treated and my sis said it looked gorgeous yesterday. Until I get a mason jar with a water sample over to Pinch-A-Penny, the local pool supply store, on Monday so they can test it and tell me what I need? Hell, what do I need?

No, I haven’t gone all Caitlyn Jenner or anything – although I sort of feel like we spent about as much time trying to get where we wanted. For me, however, my search was for something much easier. Guitar knobs.

Did I say easier? Well, scratch that notion. When I got my first electric guitar, the round knobs were serviceable, but only if I started at 0 or 10. I needed to have a start point and estimate where 5 was, or 3, whatever. The only easy one, of course, was 10. So, I went online and started hunting for the knobs you see pictured on Lori, my Epiphone semi-hollowbody guitar.

I knew immediately what would be perfect. Teardrop shaped knobs, the kind you would’ve seen in a ’50s sci-fi film on some piece of high tech military equipment being used to turn giant grasshoppers into green paste. But despite my best efforts, the search proved fruitless. I called everyone. Guitar Center. Sweetwater Music. Custom shops. The best anyone could do was suggest chicken heads, which I don’t like and aren’t terribly easy to use while playing. I even tried to enlist a resin kit manufacturer to take my design and produce the things in a run that could be sold on Etsy. Still no luck.

So, two weeks ago, my friend Billy’s dad gave me a couple of recommendations for companies that sold all sorts of switches, since he used to be in TV repair, and my friend John, who shared a stage with me at BackStreets Sports Bar the night I played live, suggested searching for places that sold antique radio knobs. He understood what I was looking for, and thought that might be a good option.

After multiple calls to various switch sellers/makers, I struck out. But, when I started searching for old radio parts. Bingo. I found a set of three ’56 Emerson radio knobs. Guy on Etsy had them. He only had one in the size I needed, but that was okay, I didn’t think I was going to find a four pack as easily as I could grab one at Guitar Center. Besides, I had different plans anyway.

Having the knob in hand was all I needed. I recruited my friend Scott, a jack-of-all-trades who’d welded the custom lights I needed for the Redemption TV pilot shoot, and we used the radio knob as a template. We made some modifications, as I didn’t want bevels and routered edges, and voila. Four perfect, teardrop shaped knobs that don’t look like cheap plastic.

A year and a half, but, well worth it. I spent two hours yesterday playing and another 90 minutes tonight, putting the knobs in different positions and changing my sound on the fly. Result? Getting the sound I want or changing it mid-song is just as easy as I’d hoped for.

Never expected when I first started learning a couple of chords, that in five years’ time I’d be playing a guitar this nice, much less modifying it with hand-made parts. Here I am, though, strummin’ away. Next backyard party? Oughta be great fun.

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Currently listening to: “Dancing Barefoot” by The Mission UK

Ever see the movie Misery? Pam saw me talking to a girl at BackStreets and decided to hobble me in my sleep.

Six guys, human traffickers, I think, were trying to snatch this little girl from a car and, well, I couldn’t ignore the screams.

Various stories I’ve told since showing up anywhere the past four days with my foot in the boot shown. Truth is, I was walking out of a place in Ft. Myers, and you know those wheelchair ramps that slope down from the curb? Stepped a little wide on that puppy, front of my foot went into that little V, heel hung up on top, and all my weight hit the outer middle of my foot, which was about two inches down, right up against the concrete edge, and SNAP.

The rather bruised, swollen pic is how it looked the night of the break. After I got home, I asked Pam to take a look. She already had a doc appointment the next morning, so I was gonna do whatever was necessary to avoid going to get x-rayed that night. I mean, who wants to sit around in the ER all night waiting for an x-ray? Pam texted the photo to a good friend who’s an EMT with my one question: Can I wait ’til tomorrow to get this checked out?

So, I did. Lousy night, of course, as ice and a 3-year-old painkiller from a hand surgery wasn’t exactly cutting it. But, oh well, what can you do? We’re at Pam’s appointment the next morning, and it went down pretty much as I had laid it out:

“Go ask Dr. D’s nurse if he thinks this needs to be looked at, because Joe wants to go home.”

Nurse looks at it, sees immediately the stupidity of that position (which I didn’t really hold, I knew the thing was broken already), and said, “Hold on, I’ll get you in with Robin, his PA,” or whatever appropriate initials apply. I wasn’t exactly paying much attention at that point. No painkillers in 10 hours and, as is always the case, the thing was much worse the next day than it was immediately after it happened.

I get in quick, Robin says he doesn’t think it’s broken, but orders the x-ray. I get wheeled across the building to radiology. Ten minutes later, despite his initial doubts, confirmed: broken, through and through. 5th metatarsal. Not a great spot, but could’ve been worse. I had hoped to avoid an MRI, but no such luck. If ligaments had been damaged, surgery would be required. If the bone was displaced, surgery might be required. If I could get behind his desk and get his tablet and write up the orders, emergency liposuction might have been required. But, again, no such luck. Damn. Not my week.

MRI results showed no ligament damage. Well, not any recent ligament damage. Doc who read the MRI said, “But you have had damage before. Partial tear of (gobbledygook to me) ligament, this one seems to have healed up pretty well, but this one. Heel spur. Fracture here.” And so on. Then: “Did all this go untreated?”

“Yup. Used to play ice hockey. Played through a lot. That? Would kinda explain it.”

Turns out the doc is a hockey fan, so we talk Stanley Cup for a few before the Cam boot goes on. The break I have is best treated with a hard cast. I, of course, am not interested in a hard cast and the hassles associated with it. (Having to bag your leg to shower, the irritation where it’ll start to rub, not being able to wash one’s lower leg and foot for eight weeks in South Florida during the summer, etc.) He tells me that if I’m the best patient he’s ever had, I might be able to get away with nothing but the boot. But, he finds that unlikely. I have to go back in 2 weeks for more x-rays to see if it’s healing amazingly well, or if he’ll have to hard cast it. Right now? I’m doing my best, which includes, sigh…

Yup, that’s a kneeling scooter. Unfortunately, not gas or battery-powered. (And, there’s a story coming about that, but that’s for another blog). This is how I’m getting around in the house and when we go somewhere, although I spent the first four days on crutches. And, let me just say, being blind and using crutches sucks. The scooter helps out big time. But still.

That’s where things stand. (Ha Ha). Gotta play guitar sitting down. That’s rough. Gotta shower on one foot, leaning against the wall. Not fun. Gotta explain to everyone who hasn’t heard the story yet that I was coming out of a store and tripped over two dwarves who were fighting over the last stool for sale at Target. Think tomorrow, I’m just gonna start handing out biz cards with my blog address printed on it.

Confession. I am not a blues guy. Which isn’t to say there isn’t a whole
lot of great blues out there. Songs I like by BB King and a host of other
artists. That said, given my choice? If the next year passed and no blues played on my Echo? Pretty sure I wouldn’t notice.

Which brings me to this. Playing the blues. Regular readers know I’ve been playing the guitar for a couple of years and while I wouldn’t say I’m good, I’m competent enough to have played on stage with pros and held my own (see the links below), and I play with a few different guys a couple of times a week in a late-start effort to get, well, decent.

Matt and I playing the blues.

Matt is one heck of a player. He’s been in bands, he’s got more talent than I could fit on one of those upload stems they used in The Matrix, and plays several instruments. That kind of good. Not to mention, he’s blind, too, and Pam’s told me you’d never know it by looking at him. You damn sure wouldn’t guess listening to him jam. Anyway, Matt, as you may have already guessed, does like the blues. Quite a bit, in fact. And, he’s been showing me stuff. Mostly rock and roll related thefts from traditional blues, certain licks, run ups and run downs, you name it. And, while I am a product of the ’80s – a music fan grounded in goth and new wave, synthpop and industrial – this? This ain’t all bad. Are there any blues tunes that I actually want to play? I’d say two. I wouldn’t mind learning “Who Do You Love,” even if it leans far more toward the George Thorogood version. And one other, but no need to go on and on about that now.

The blues. Never would have believed , even when I first started actually getting somewhere on the guitar, that I’d wind up here, and certainly not playing any. Might be a little frustrating getting the hang of some of the techniques, but frustration I can deal with. As long as I’m not suffering the blues? Just going to keep at it.

Posted about this a few months back, and I’m revisiting the subject because, as you can see, look what just turned up at my local McDonald’s. Yep, that’s what you think it is, an order kiosk.

I haven’t used it yet. Not because I can’t see it, and not because I was with Pam. No, I haven’t used it yet because thus far, no one has walked out of my local Mickey D’s demanding $15 an hour. No one has stood under the golden arches telling local reporters that they deserve more than a paramedic because they “do more.” No one has organized a group of people outside to chant various slogans demanding “living wage” for working a register. So, ’til that happens? I don’t mind going to the counter, ignoring the kiosks, and showing corporate (or the franchise owner) that I’d rather give my order to a human being – albeit one who likely makes more errors than the machines.

If the ‘movement’ takes hold here in FL, though? If the people at my local fast food restaurant start demanding living wage for minimum wage jobs? Well, guess what? You’ll see me using nothing but. Not because I don’t want people to make $15 an hour. I do. But, not as minimum wage. Not to take my order at the counter. Not to take my cash at the drive-thru. Sorry, but that job isn’t worth $15. And people shouldn’t confuse living wage with minimum wage.

My nephews, 16 and 15, just got hired at a local supermarket. And while it’s nice they’re making a little more than minimum, they understand that a first job is a first job for a reason. It’s not a career. It isn’t something you want to do for a living. Collecting shopping carts or taking someone’s groceries to their car or bagging? Not living-wage-worthy. But then, my nephews have a work ethic. They have ambition. They don’t want to be bagging in six months. One of them has already gotten a promotion. That’s how you go places. You work hard, you make an impression, you get raises. You don’t just demand living wage for an entry-level job that’s meant for HS kids. Want $15 an hour? Good. Earn a promotion. Show the boss you deserve more responsibility and the money that comes with it.

My local McDonald’s has seen the writing on the wall. They’ve invested in eliminating minimum wage jobs because they don’t want to pay $15 for positions that don’t warrant it. For all you cheerleaders of jacking the minimum wage to $15 for every low-skill gig out there? Take a good, long look. The people you’re fighting for? They’re going to lose those low-skill-level jobs, and they won’t come back. They’re gonna be replaced by machines. And, unless they start developing the skills necessary to get better jobs-like they should have been doing all along? Good luck making living wage in a world without gigs like fry cook and cashier. For those who’ve been pounding the $15 an hour drum? This is on you, folks. You brought this on yourselves.
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Currently listening to: “Regret” by New Order

True, that goes for just about anything. But I’m talking about time. Clock’s always ticking, there’s no RESET button and no REWIND function. If people can’t understand that, or worse, aren’t willing to, then they’re people I don’t need. I’m not a content guy. Having the creds I have, looking over what I’ve been able to accomplish doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. It reminds me of the things I still haven’t done, and want to check off my ever-expanding bucket list.

I have a lot of goals I still want to achieve. When things were going bad with my film? I fought through the petty BS and finished it. Then I got it into festivals. Then I got it distributed-worldwide. Check, check, check. Mission accomplished. When I had issues with my first novel, I hired an editor. Didn’t work out. So, I tracked down the best editor I’d ever had, Marge Harris, who I hadn’t spoken to in nearly 15 years. It was tough, and took over a month, but I managed. Check. Novel drafts polished like crystal? Check. Publication? Check.

If someone around you is constantly dragging their personal baggage into your project? Ditch them. Flat out, cut ’em loose. If someone can’t check their agenda at the door and focus on the work? Why bother? No one is irreplaceable. Besides, you may find the albatross’ replacement is even more talented, or has something to offer you never expected. That’s my .02 cents. If someone’s drama or politics or bitterness is an obstacle, don’t suffer it. Overcome it. Much easier to move ahead without that kind of anchor dragging you down. Trust me on this one.

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Currently listening to: “Here’s Where the Story Ends” by The Sundays

Okay, today’s the day, time to let the cat outa the bag. The team at Catalyst Creativ & Wayfarer Entertainment, and the Foundation Fighting Blindness have officially kicked off the Blindfold Challenge. What’s it like to be a sighted DJ, suddenly forced to do your thing the way a blind DJ does? Well, you can find out by right here. What’s it like to be a cook, or chef, when you suddenly can’t see the kitchen you’re working in? Fun stuff. And, of course, the reason I went to NY 2 weeks ago to work with Justin Baldoni – one of the stars of the hit series Jane the Virgin – who also happens to be a director (hint hint), Diane Guerrero, from the NetFlix monster Orange Is the New Black, and Mrs. USA and Mrs. World April Lufriu.

Back in June, I got a tweet from someone I didn’t know, asking if I’d be interested in participating in a digital campaign. I didn’t recognize the Twitter handle and had no clue what the campaign might be, but figured, what the heck? So long as it wasn’t promoting the new Ghostbusters…

So we share e-mail addresses and Amanda Slavin, from Catalyst Creativ, sends me a note about the project. It’s a campaign being kicked off by the Foundation Fighting Blindness, designed to bring attention to various diseases causing sight loss, helping researchers looking for cures get more funding, raising awareness, that sort of thing. Needless to say, blindness is more than a pet cause, seeing as for me, the lights’ve been out since 2002. I was IN even before finishing that e-mail.

So, dates are set. Other people (including some actors, a pageant winner, two documentary directors and yours truly) would be shooting together in late June. Only, well, it’s entertainment. Things fall through. So, the original dates didn’t work. No problem, right? Just reschedule. But, by mid-July, dates were still being discussed, and a firm deadline to complete our part was set for August 7th. As you can imagine, by the end of July, that window was closing fast. To be honest, while I was totally stoked about being involved, the folks I was scheduled to be working with are much bigger entertainment industry fish than I am. I mean, by a lot. So, I figured, given that I’m not the world’s luckiest filmmaker, the whole thing might not happen. Before I lost hope, though, August fifth started looking good for everyone. On Aug. 1st, I get word, asking if I can be in New York, not Los Angeles, in 72 hours. Flight, lodging, Uber rides, whatever, that’ll
all be covered. I called up some friends and my sis to see who could watch Mouse and the cats. I hired another friend’s pet-sitting service for the slots I couldn’t fill. Thursday morning? We were on a plane out of Ft. Myers, on our way to The Big Apple.

I won’t get into all the ins-and-outs of the trip there. Suffice to say, it wasn’t bad. The trip back? The voyage from Hell? I already posted about that – but my run-in with TSA? That wasn’t the worst of it. (Sorry, I don’t like cliffhangers or teasers, but I’ll get to that other incident in a couple of blogs).
I will, however, do a name-drop, because I’ve got the okay from the powers-that-be behind the shoot. That pic? That’s me and director Todd Kellstein of Wayfarer Entertainment, one of the filmmakers behind Rebel With a Cause: the Sam Simon Story. For those of you who don’t remember the name, Sam was the co-creator of The Simpsons, who died of cancer in 2015.

Todd, Pam and I hooked up Thursday night for dinner at John Sullivan’s, where we became fast friends, talked not just the following day’s shoot, but movies
in general, how I made The Bunker, films Todd and his partner have worked on and released – needless to say, we wound up taking up a table for a lot longer
than the average dinner-seekers at a place right up the street from Madison Square Garden.

More on the shoot, the other people involved (yeah, yeah, I know, more teasers). But August 23rd is comin’ fast, and on or around that date is when all can be revealed. In fact, probably a lot earlier, but for now? This is how the trip began. Dates get locked Monday night. Flight arrangements made around 10pm. I start contacting people about the pets, rescheduling things planned here, that sort of stuff. Tuesday night? Hotel arrangements get locked down. Thursday morning we’re city-bound. Thursday afternoon? The New York location falls through (that’s shoots for you, rarely does anything but planning go without a hitch). Thursday late, the producer books an even better location, and I get e-mailed that address that night, with a call time of 9am. Sound frantic? Trust me. I’m a writer. Words do not do this one justice. And, there’s a lot more to come. Keep checking back to see how the shoot itself went, what’s left of Times Square, The Village, and some of my favorite old haunts, having grown up traveling into the city a ton.
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Currently listening to: “Monsters” by The Cruxshadows

Since going blind, I’ve traveled a lot. Many trips to California. A bunch to NY and Jersey. Texas. Tennessee. Georgia. Detroit. Heck, I even flew to Mexico, solo.

I’ve never had too many problems with TSA, but I know they get their share of grief. IMO? In the past few years, they’ve more than earned it. On the return trip from the #HowEyeSeeIt shoot I did up in New York, I had my first really bad run-in with the TSA Gestapo, including an agent who thought she could run roughshod over us, telling Pam that she couldn’t record or take pictures of security, and that she had to stop. I told her, no, we didn’t, because I know better. If you want to find out just how well the TSA treated this disabled passenger, who had told agents that he needed assistance and was taken to the checkpoint with my wife, who I was almost immediately separated from, before agents allowed my property to be ripped off right beneath their noses? Click the vid.

If the TSA wants to bitch about me posting it? Too bad. If they want to come after me for it? Go pound sand, you inept, incompetent mouth-breathers. You know where to find me. Actually, you probably don’t, because it was apparent that you’re clueless, at least in Newark. Hint: I’m from SWFL and I’m still in the e-phone book. Your super security skills oughta at least get you close. Just to start you off, that thing you’ll be sitting on in the plane? That’s your ass. That thing that bends in the middle of your arm? That’s your elbow. Now that you can tell one from the other.